Pray for a New Addiction
by Raven Sinead
Summary: It is the smaller moments that become bright points in the web of fate. It is the hands that touch in difficult moments, the feet that do not falter when exhaustion breaks the back, the simple words that are shared that can become the language of eternity. Two people can come together...it may take time, but if it is destined, it will happen. DA:I fic. CullenxCassandra.
1. The Confession

**Disclaimer:** All characters and lands belong to BioWare. I own nothing.

_**Author's Note: **Hello all, and thanks for stopping by this little fic. It's a deviation from my usual style, and usual pairing preference, but that is because I wrote this as a birthday gift for my friend and fellow author, Kateriel79. She has given me the honor of beta-reading for her, and has been such an encouragement and blessing in my life that I feel like this small contribution is too small of a way to say "thank you," and "Happy Birthday." Without further ado, Kat, and all others, I hope you enjoy._

_Bright Blessings, _

_~Raven_

* * *

**Haven**

It was rumored that red lyrium could sing. That those who touched it, or who remained near it for too long, would begin to go mad from its music. Cullen had been there when Meredith took leave of sanity, when she declared the Rite of Annulment, and when the streets of Kirkwall ran red with blood the color of the lyrium that had stolen Meredith's mind. Cullen had heard Varric speak of red lyrium and watched the implacable dwarf shudder at the remembrance of its influence.

Cullen sighed as he watched his recruits spar with each other. They were preparing for the battles ahead, but it did not seem like enough. They had too much fear in their hearts for any amount of training to compensante. He had listened to the soldiers whispering to each other of the red lyrium deposits in the mountains. How even walking near it had sent malevolent whispers shuddering down their spines. Cullen frowned. Yes, red lyrium was strange and terrifying…but it was not the only lyrium that could sing.

The commander of the Inquisition's forces could always hear another song in the back of his mind. The melody was one he remembered from when he was a young man. It burned in his chest and dried out his mouth. It shivered through his body, stealing his heat and plaguing his dreams. Alas, it was not red lyrium that tempted the man. Instead, it was the lyrium that Thedas had known, dwarves mined, mages drank, and templars used, for ages.

At first, it had been a tool for Cullen to use. Nothing more. Now, it lingered within him as a craving, gnawing need; a memory that grew sweeter with distance, dearer with time, more pressing with absence. The burning in his blood would overwhelm him soon, and he could not afford that. The Inquisition could not afford that. He had made a promise and a pledge. He would keep it, no matter the cost.

"Elias!" Cullen called out to one of his recruits. "Your shield is neither decoration nor a tool of simple defense. It will and _must_ be as important to you as your blade when you face battle. I have told you this many times, and if you will not listen to my words, then I will show you. Put away your sword."

"Commander Cullen, I do not see what good relinquishing my blade will do me. I would not abandon it on the battlefield. Therefore I will not on the training field." Elias stood straight, proud in his ignorance, a firm grip kept on the hilt of his flashy, costly weapon.

Inside himself, Cullen flushed an angry red and shouted the young man into submission. Outwardly, he just sighed. While the Inquisition needed the men and the gold given by noble families eager to do the Maker's work, he had drunk his fill of the younger sons of noble houses being sent as fighters. Many of them were _barely_ decent duelists, but thought themselves soldiers born. Cullen's eyes burned every time he watched them attempt to wield a longsword as they would a rapier, or hold their shields as Elias did now: as an encumbrance rather than a viable defense _and_ weapon.

"Do not be so hasty to dig your grave, Lord Whitton. Listen to the commander." an austere, authoritative voice moved closer.

Cassandra Pentaghast stepped out from the early morning fog and the young nobleman clutched his sword tighter at the sight of her. The young man's shoulders squared, his back straightened, and the look of pride he wore became a mask of blank ignorance…on purpose.

Cullen frowned, but he could not blame Elias for his reaction. _The Right Hand of the Divine is a much more commanding presence than a templar past his prime who was taken captive by abominations during the Blight; who failed to see his knight commander losing all control. A templar who failed to stop a monster…who did not save the lives that were lost that day, needlessly. _

"Yes, Lady Pentaghast." Elias agreed, planting his gleaming blade in the rocky, muddy soil of Haven.

"Now raise your shield and defend yourself." Cullen ordered, drawing his sword against the raw recruit.

Elias' eyes widened and he backpedaled as Cullen struck; the boy scarcely evaded the blade. Cullen arrested the downward movement of his blade, turning its momentum into a slashing force from the right side. Elias blocked the blow with his shield but did not deflect the force of the blow and Cullen watched pain bloom across the young lord's face as his arm was jarred. However, it was not yet time for the lesson to end. Cullen lunged, aiming his sharpened sword directly for Elias' heart.

The young noble brought up his shield and Cullen's blade lodged in the wood. Cullen saw the fear in Elias' eyes and decided to press the attack. Shifting the position of his arms, Cullen speared his blade upwards, applying just enough pressure to tilt the shield and drive the edge of it into the bridge of the boy's nose.

Elias cried out in shock and pain as he fell backwards, landing on his rump in the mud. Cullen stood over him and wrenched his sword from the shield. Elias wiped at the blood seeping from his nose, wincing at the pressure his sleeve and arm placed on the offended organ.

"If you would pay _attention_ to your instructors," Cullen spoke, his voice hard and sharp as the steel he carried, "you would have been able to disarm me when my blade lodged in your shield. Swords are deadly, elegant, and beautiful, but weapons alone will not strike fear in the hearts of your enemies. Skill alone will intimidate, and a true warrior can lay waste to their foe with naught but a bulky practice shield. Get off the ground, turn your weapons in to the quartermaster, and ask for a wolfsbane poultice for your bruises. Think about your failure here, Lord Whitton, for your title will offer you no protection here, and even less on the battlefield."

Elias' face changed; his mouth twisted in an expression of ugly disdain so common in the supposedly well-bred.

"Lady Pentaghast," Elias beseeched her, noble speaking to noble, "he cannot speak to me in this manner. My family supports the Inquisition and if I spoke to them of this, you would surely risk the loss of that support. Make him see reason."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "I would rather see our coffers emptied than a _boy_ in our ranks who refuses proper training because it bruises his pride. You will find no refuge by interceding with me, Elias Whitton. Commander Cullen was kinder in the lesson he gave you than I would have been."

Elias, who had, judging by the bewilderment stamped on his features, thought to have Cassandra take _his_ side, stammered. "Wha…what do you mean?"

Cassandra's eyes were as cold as the ice that covered the lake. "I would have _broken_ your nose." the Right Hand informed the boy.

The absolute contempt in Cassandra's tone brought Elias to his feet. He lifted his sword from the ground and left the training field, his pride far more damaged than his face, though he would carry the bruises for at least a week.

"What an idiot." Cassandra muttered, following Elias' departure with her eyes. "I wish that those who desire to aid us would send true help instead of foisting their privileged spawn upon our ranks. We are warriors, not wet-nurses."

"I agree." Cullen replied, but his eyes were no longer on his troops. Instead, they lingered on Cassandra Pentaghast, his friend, his confidant, and, on occasion, his very sanity. "We are fighting demons that descend from a tear in the sky. We need soldiers, not children with pillowy hands who seek glory and validation. There are days I envy the Hero of Ferelden. At least, during the Blight, she was able to recruit hardened warriors and skilled hunters. We are saddled with this lot."

Cassandra nodded. "It would seem the Maker sees fit to add more to our personal trials."

The Seeker's words struck a chord in Cullen. He had been struggling, fighting his personal battles, trying to forget the song that haunted every waking moment, and the dreams that disturbed his rest. Still, he had suffered and struggled through, unwilling to place his burdens on another's shoulders. The woman standing beside him had found him in despair, and had asked him to break from the templars and join the Inquisition, to help restore order in a chaotic world.

Cullen had agreed…not out of a want to begin the Inquisition, not because he sought the company of the powerful, but because he had seen true faith shining in Cassandra's cinnamon eyes; faith that he had lost when Meredith's giant blade had carved a bloody swath across the throat of a child…a mage-child. Cullen needed faith, for he had lost his belief in the templar order. He had lost his belief in the capability of men to be humane, compassionate, and kind.

Cassandra's very voice carried the faith that Cullen had lost. Thus, he had agreed, searching for his own faith and finding it again, piece by piece. Even after the explosion at the Conclave and the death of Divine Justinia, Cassandra had kept her faith. She had been the first to believe in the Herald, to silence the voices that wished judgment to be swift and harsh on the unfortunate mage. Though perhaps she did not know it, Cassandra had sustained Cullen's faith, given him patience, and encouraged him to attempt to defeat his own demons.

However, those demons were eating at him. They hounded him with memories, dreaming, and that damnable, _damnable _song.

Cullen looked to Cassandra and the sun broke through the clouds, casting a warm, gentle light on the Seeker's face. Cassandra turned her countenance to the sun, closed her eyes, letting the warmth and luminescence bathe her features. She did not feel Cullen's eyes resting upon her, but they were. They were roving over the fine angles of Cassandra's features, the proud cheekbones, straight nose, and generous, supple lips. They were examining the scars that gave the woman's face character without taking away her beauty.

Cullen's eyes were admiring the woman beneath the armor: the woman he caught reading scandalous literature in the garden, the woman who kept a rosewater scented handkerchief tucked in her left bracer…the woman whose eyes filled with longing when she saw two hearts in love, two bodies hand in hand, two lives joined as one.

Yes, Cullen realized, there were three who were the backbone of the Inquisition. That was how Thedas needed to see them. It could not be, however, the way in which they began to see each other. More than ever, they needed to trust each other. And now, more than ever before, Cullen needed someone he could trust. Someone that knew about the song crawling across his flesh and around his eyes and into his mouth. He needed to be able to trust another, because he could not trust himself.

"Lady Pentaghast," Cullen solicited her attention, his chest burning as those dark, glittering eyes landed on him, "if you have a moment, there is a matter of great importance that I need to speak with you about."

"Does it concern the questionable abilities of our high-blooded soldiers?" Cassandra asked, smiling.

Cullen did not know it…but later, he would name that as the moment he began to live to place that expression on the Right Hand's face.

"No, milady." Cullen shook his head. "It is a personal matter, but it does stand to affect the Inquisition."

"Walk with me." Cassandra nodded in the direction of the road that led out of Haven. "Where ears are not wide open and belonging to tongues with loose hinges."

"Very well." Cullen agreed, extending his arm in courtly fashion, surprised with the stoic, pragmatic woman took it…more surprised when they fell in step with each other…a harmony, that, for a moment, drowned out the song that haunted him.


	2. The Compassion

**After the Razing of Haven**

If Cullen Rutherford knew one thing, it was chaos. Chaos had defined the Circle tower in Ferelden during the Blight. Kirkwall had been nothing _but _chaos, culminating in terror and destruction. This, now, was chaos. They had dragged themselves through the frigidity of the mountains and even though the people were chilled, starving, and beyond exhaustion, they still pushed forward.

Fear had gathered them in Haven and flung them into the unknown. They struggled now to make a camp in a small valley between two mountains, a place they had stumbled upon that gave them some sort of shelter from the vicious, cutting winds. Cullen busied himself as best he could, attempting to be helpful. What the people needed now was a leader. He was not such a thing…nor had he ever been, in his eyes.

_I am the one who begged the Hero of Ferelden to kill all of the mages in the circle tower. I am the one who stood against Meredith too late and did not have the strength to stop her. My words will not calm these people. I am the trainer and commander of our forces, but look how many injured are here. Look at how many of our men have fallen. Mothers have lost their children, lovers have lost their beloved, and here we are at the end of our strength with no guide and no protection. _

Cullen examined the faces of those he had come to know, the strangers drawn together by the Inquisition, who followed the Herald in an attempt to end the demonic invasion of Thedas. The elven apostate, Solas, tood at the edge of the camp, at the verge of the chaos, as though he were beyond and above it all. Cullen frowned as he pounded a tent stake into the ground. The man could have attempted to help, but instead stood aside, taking it all in as though he were standing in the Fade and watching something that had happened ages before.

The lunatic elf, Sera, darted about like a madwoman, flitting hither and thither, but Cullen noticed that in every place she appeared in and vanished from, she left behind a blanket for the chilled, food for the hungry, or a smile on the tear-streaked face of a child. Sera wasn't a bad sort…unlike their other volunteer from Val Royeaux.

Vivienne, First Enchanter to the Imperial court, stood in the middle of the chaos, but seemed more distant from it then Solas. Her regal posture had not changed, and she stood in a cocoon of magical warmth that she shared with no one. Cullen glowered at her. After all that he had endured, he possessed no great love of mages, but in his heart, he believed he would rather face an abomination at full power than to ally himself with a mage as heartless and ruthless as Vivienne.

Disgusted, Cullen turned from the woman and towards the sound of the booming voice which had become familiar to them all. The Iron Bull kept his Chargers in line, disseminating orders, having them help the traumatized townsfolk of Haven. The massive qunari lifted huge burdens, attempting to create a better windblock.

The Tevinter mage, Dorian, busied himself by running through the camp and lighting fires at every tent. Cullen shook his head at the man's unnecessary theatrics, but at least the flagrant coxcomb was making himself useful. Cullen finished raising the tent and got to his feet, feeling a chill run down his spine as he saw the strange, ragged boy that had stumbled into the chantry with Chancellor Roderick. Something was not right about that young man; Cullen could sense it. And yet, as he walked past the beleaguered men and women, Cullen watched their countenances change, and the tension flood out of their shoulders.

_Perhaps he is helping in some strange way, _Cullen allowed, having seen stranger things in his lifetime and experience. _I will leave him be for now…there is too much to be done to worry over something so simple. _

"This is a damn mess, Curly." Varric's voice spoke over the sound of the wind and the madness. "We can't stay here for long. What if the Herald fails and Corypheus comes this way?"

_No. That __**cannot**__ happen. _

"While that terrible eventuality might come to pass," Cullen allowed, "we cannot lose focus on the needs of this moment. I am worried less about an army of red templars pouring down upon us than I am worried about keeping these people fed and warm. Turn your hands and heart to that, and let the rest handle itself."

Varric nodded, knowing that Cullen had not chastised him, but instead attempted to convey his own worry in the manner peculiar to him.

"You're right at that." Varric nodded. "I'm just worried. We killed him, Curly. Me and Hawke. I stood over his dead body and Bianca put a bolt in his ugly face. This just doesn't make any sense. If Hawke were here, she could make sense of it."

_So could the Hero of Ferelden, _Cullen thought, sharing Varric's sentiments. _We need someone who can bind us into a cohesive whole. Until then, we have the three of us. The backbone. _

Cullen looked towards the tent that held the injured. Leliana was there, assisting Mother Giselle. The redhead had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hands and forearms were soaked with blood. Cullen's gut tightened at the sight and he turned away, unable to watch, unable to _stop_ thinking of Kirkwall, the streets running red with blood, the injured howling in pain. This felt the same, but here there was no Hawke. No Hero. No leader.

Cullen watched Varric struggle through the snow towards the tent where food was being prepared. The dwarf grabbed a cauldron and set it over a fire, beginning to help add to the meal, because, even in the middle of despair and tribulation, people needed to eat. He thought of how Varric had come to join them, dragged by Cassandra's very firm grasp. She had meant for him to tell his story to the Divine. It would not now be told…the Divine was dead.

_But Cassandra is alive. And it is she who has helped so much, and led us this far. It was she who supported Chancellor Roderick and led us into the mountains. In the absence of the Herald, it is she that we look to. So why is she not here? Where has she gone…and why?_

* * *

The wound burned in a way that no other injury ever had. Cassandra leaned against the rock face, knowing it was the direction the Herald would come from, should she appear. Cassandra ignored the burning of the wound, the numb feeling slowly spreading across her chest.

Enara Trevelyan _would_ survive; there was no other way that it could be. The Maker had removed any chance of a leader from any of the other great conflicts through the years. Shaide Hawke had been spirited away to the high seas, somewhere with Isabela, the vixen who fancied herself a captain. The Hero of Ferelden, Valyen Tabris, had been missing these many years. She communicated still with her lover, Leliana, but never gave word of her location.

_It is breaking Leliana's heart, _Cassandra frowned, wrapping her arms around herself tighter in an attempt to ward off the chill and ease the worsening ache of her wound. _But at least she knows that her love is alive…at least she has known what it is to love. Enara, where are you? _

Cassandra strained her eyes, looking through the curtain of soft-falling snow. In any other place, any other time, she would have found the scene beautiful, perhaps even serene. She frowned at herself as she recalled a passage from one of Varric's works, wherein he had described a winter scene with a poetic flair that one who had met him could not envision him possessing.

The hero of that tale had stood in the swirling blizzard, waiting for a love and a hope that had filled their heart with radiance and light. Because it was a story, it had happened. Their love had come; all had been well. But, Cassandra knew, all too well, that the reality of life was not the same as it was in stories. The Herald of Andraste would not emerge from the blizzard. The people of Haven would not triumph. And love would remain a thing written in the pages of a book. Not to be touched, tasted, or experienced in times such as these, by a woman such as her.

Cassandra shuddered as chills shook her. She attempted to convince herself that they were caused by the prolonged exposure to the cold. In her heart, she knew better. She had been injured and ill enough times to recognize the onset of infection.

_Perhaps it is for the best. If Enara does not come back to us, then the Inquisition will be for nothing, and those who have thrown their lot in with us will see us stoned in the streets. Better, if I die, for it to be here, on my feet, standing for hope. Hope that Andraste's herald will return to us. _

As the moments passed, the snowfall increased, and Cassandra became more and more unable to bear the pain. It radiated into her chest and crawled up into her neck, tightening her throat. Standing became difficult as the shivers racking her became more violent and intense. At last, she sank to her knees in the snow, cradling her injured side with her arm, praying to the Maker to find one last bit of kindness.

_You did not give us a Herald simply to take her away. _Cassandra pleaded. _I know that this is true, and I am having faith. Faith in you, faith in Andraste, and faith in Enara Trevelyan. Please, do not let my vigil be for nothing. I stand here, hurt, waiting. If she will return to us, please, my Maker, grant me a sign. Grant me kindness and a sign. _

"Cassandra?" she heard a voice behind her and turned to face it, causing fire to rip along her side.

Cassandra gasped and doubled over, her heated brow grazing into the snow, granting some relief, but not enough. Not enough to matter. Not to enough to change what was happening to her. She bit her lip, reminding herself that she had endured worse, been injured worse, and that surely, this time would surely be no different. She could push herself through this agony and come out on the other side, fighting, as she always had.

There were no further words. Instead, warm, gentle hands came to rest on her shoulders, pushing her back up from the snow. Kind, nightmare-scarred eyes peered into hers. There were snowflakes in his hair, thrown into glimmering relief by the torches that guttered in the camp. In his touch she felt the offer of his strength. In his eyes she saw the breadth of his concern.

Cassandra had prayed for kindness, but she did not know what to think when his eyes drifted down to her side, to the wound she attempted to conceal. The brown eyes fired with alarm, but he did not raise his voice. He did not cry out as Leliana might have; he did not berate her for going untreated. Instead, his hands left her shoulders and removed his heavy cloak. He draped it around her shuddering body, then lifted her up in his arms.

She could not protest the strength enfolding her, could not deny that she felt comfort as he walked through the snow. Her eyes fluttered closed as the sound of voices grew nearer. He was taking her into the camp, but the voices of the people grew no louder. Her eyes opened when Cullen stooped and entered a tent. A fire burned in the center, the smoke vented through a hole at the top of the tent. The blessed warmth touched her frigid features and she sighed in relief.

Cullen eased her down onto a pile of furs, drawing his cloak tighter around her body, his lips pursed in concentration, his eyes burning with concern and focus.

"Lie still." he ordered, always a man of few words. "I'll be back and we can see to your wounds."

Cassandra obeyed him, trying to control the shivering that sent fresh waves of sparks and lightning shooting through her body. In the distance, she could hear some sort of music, an eerie, cacophonic song. The lyrics were jangled, jumbled poetry, eating into her skull as her shivering became the rhythm of the dark, sweet dance.

Her hand reached up to the wound, the perverse human desire to cover an injury. Her hand grew sticky with blood and she struggled to pull Cullen's heavy cloak around her. It smelled like cedar and the olive oil with which he polished his blade. The scent reminded Cassandra of a place of comfort and a place of home.

She thought of Galyan, of their few, frenetic trysts before he had vanished to his duty and she had gone to hers. He had always smelled of exotic places and different lands. Never the same, never any consistency, nothing stable. Cassandra _craved_ stability. She had attempted to establish it in her own life, to no avail. Her duty as the Right Hand of the Divine kept her from ever having a home, ever having a life outside of her work…ever having a love.

The tent flap moved and Cullen entered. He looked tired, as they all did, but there was another emotion stamped on his countenance that Cassandra could not quite place. Was it worry? It certainly did not look like the worry in Leliana's eyes when her falcon returned with yet another cryptic missive from her warden. It did not look like the worry in Enara Trevelyan's eyes when she studied the gravity of her position in the world.

Cullen set down the supplies he had brought and turned his attention to the fire, placing a few large logs from their dwindling stock on it.

"It is going to be cold." Cullen warned her. "But I need to have a look at your wounds." He rested his large, callused hand on her forehead and frowned. "You're feverish."

"That is of no concern." Cassandra resisted. "Someone needs to be out there, watching for the Herald."

"I've stationed my men to watch." Cullen reassured her, and Cassandra felt herself relaxing. "If she returns to us, she will not be unnoticed. Now, Lady Pentaghast, if you are done attempting to resist, let me help you. If not, I will turn you over to Sister Nightingale."

"Maker, no." Cassandra's breath hitched as Cullen removed the cloak and undid the toggles of her tunic with a defter touch than she would have expected of the brawny templar. "I cannot endure another lecture on the fluid nature of mortality."

Cullen nodded as he moved Cassandra's tunic aside, wincing as he saw the terrible gash deep in her side. The weapon had ripped under her breast, slicing through her breastband. Cullen pulled a knife and cut through the rest of the material. Cassandra moved her hands, attempting to cover herself, to hide herself from his eyes, but Cullen gently grasped her wrists.

"Lie still, Cassandra." he urged her. "The sooner you allow me to help you, the sooner it will be done. Tell me how you were injured."

"The red templars." Cassandra shifted on the furs, attempting to find a comfortable position. "I had just cut one down, defending the trebuchets, when I turned and…and where once there had been a man there was a mutated creature of magic gone wrong. He carried no weapon, but his arm was a spike…it struck before I could defend myself."

"Maker's breath." Cullen reached into the wound and Cassandra felt something _pull_.

She bit back a hiss of pain and looked up as Cullen examined what he had pulled from her wound. His face was a study in disgust and his disconcerted expression made Cassandra's heart go cold.

"It's a red lyrium shard." Cullen glared at it. "Those damned creatures are rife with it. Cassandra, I have to see if there is any more of this in the wound. If we don't find it, it could…it could…"

Cullen shook his head and Cassandra knew his thoughts. She could see the nightmare named Knight-Commander Meredith in his eyes. Red lyrium had driven her insane. Cassandra watched a fear of the future playing out in his gaze. Fear that Cassandra would begin to hear the song, that the red lyrium would eat into her mind and turn her…and Cullen needed her. He needed her to be his conscience and his guide, because he was attempting to break the addiction that had destroyed Meredith and Kirkwall.

"Cullen," she called his attention from the lyrium shard, from his fear, and from his unending worry. "Cullen, we must resolve now to trust each other. Remove the lyrium from the wound. Help me, so that I might continue to help you. I swear it will not change me."

"I apologize for any pain I might cause you, Lady Pentaghast." Cullen spoke, his chivalry covering his fear. He turned his hands and eyes to the wound, caring for her with as gentle as touch as possible.

"Call me Cassandra." she offered, keeping her expression stoic as the man began to clean her wound. "If we are to share the confidences of our souls, then it is not too far to reach to call each other by our given names."

Cullen diverted his attention from his work, his brown eyes meeting Cassandra's amber-cinnamon gaze.

"Do we?" he asked. "Share the confidences of our souls?"

Cassandra nodded, as much as she could. This man had trusted her to keep him from becoming a monster, a slave to his addiction. He had given her the task of making certain that he did not change and did not revert, that his withdrawal did not make him a monster. He had trusted her with his body, his mind, and his soul.

Now, she lay here, injured, with his hands on her body, attempting to mend the damage done. It might not be a confidence of her soul, but she trusted him to care for her body, to stop her bleeding, to mend her torn flesh. She trusted him to protect her; that was more than she had given another…more than she had _trusted_ another with in a very, very long time. Even through the pain of her body, through the worry in her heart…knowing that she could have that faith in another…gave her enough peace to close her eyes and, for the first time in so very, very long…truly rest.


	3. The Conflagration

**Wicked Grace**

The mead slid down her throat with a delicious sweetness, followed by a hot bite. It tasted of pleasure and white pepper, and as it slipped into her blood, Cassandra felt the effects. Her shoulders loosened and she sank into her chair, allowing the flush of the alcohol to scathe across her cheeks.

Those seated around the table in the tavern had become her friends, her confidants, her comrades in arms. Enara Trevelyan sat close to the Iron Bull's right hand, Krem. It was no secret that the two were…close. So many of this group had joined together in ways that went beyond simple comrades in arms.

The Iron Bull sat close to the Tevinter mage, Dorian. Cassandra made a disgusted noise as she remembered the complaints that had reached her ears about…_noises_ that had come from Dorian's room in Skyhold. Outwardly, Cassandra sneered, retaining her invincible veneer. It convinced the people of Skyhold. It gave them peace and calm, to see her remain unaffected.

Inside, she glowed with warmth. It heartened her that those that surrounded her, those that were dear to her, had found love and connection and bliss with each other in this difficult time. She hid behind the veneer of the Right Hand, though she knew that not all of her secrets were still…secret. Enara had found her engrossed in one of Varric's _ridiculous_ stories…and had petitioned the obnoxious dwarf to pen another tale for her.

Varric had acquiesced, but had stood there with a mocking grin on her face as Cassandra clutched the book to her chest while Enara chuckled and Varric said all manner of insufferable things. However, it was only two who knew of her…foolishness. She was doing the work of the Inquisition, the work of the Maker. She dedicated her heart to restoring order to the world. She could pretend that she did not ache with loneliness on the dark nights. She could pretend that seeing the hungry kisses exchanged between Enara and Krem did nothing to her.

They most assuredly did _not _make her throat tighten, her lips ached to be kissed. Seeing their unsubtle caresses beneath the table did _not_ set fire to her loins and make her remember how _very long_ it had been since she had been touched. Instead, she focused on the cards that she had been dealt.

"I have an idea." Enara stated as she examined her cards. "Seeing as we have enough gold to fill our pockets, I say we raise the stakes."

"Oh?" Iron Bull perked up, nudging Dorian with his elbow.

"Yes." the smile spreading across Enara's face could only be described as _wicked_.

_Very much like this game, _Cassandra mused, knowing that she would lose the first hand, without a doubt.

"Instead of playing for coin, let us play for dignity!" Enara declared, raising her tankard of ale. "Every round, the loser must remove an article of clothing!"

"This is a terribly roundabout way to get me naked, Inquisitor." Krem jested, and the table burst into laughter.

"No." Cullen shook his head, drawing Cassandra's eyes to him.

His deep, mellow brown eyes were almost terrified at the thought. Cassandra snickered, wondering what it might be like to see the man beneath the heavy clothes and armor he perpetually wore. Her mind reminded her of a familiar scent, cedar and olive oil, and she quickly took a drink to hide the smile that took over her lips and the blush that scored her cheeks.

She and Cullen had grown closer since the razing of Haven. She had helped guide him through his addiction, though the need or lyrium still struck him on occasion, and threatened to rule him. Cassandra could empathize. Never had she known an addiction such as that, but she did know what it was to crave, to need, and to long for something that she could not have.

"Come now, Cullen." Cassandra found herself speaking, and realized that she was going to _support_ Enara's ridiculous idea. Before her logical mind could think better of it, she continued. "Enara is right. What good will coin do us when all we own belongs to the Inquisition? The quest for dignity it is!"

Cullen sighed, nodding as he relented. Varric made a joke about Curly being _petrified_ with fear. Cassandra's blush deepened; she blamed it on the mead. It had been quite a long time since she had taken pleasure in strong drink. The last time she had done so had…ended badly.

_Leliana and I, on a mission to Rivain for the Divine. We got a room in the tavern; and decided to relax for the evening. It had been a stressful journey; I was eager forget it. I drank my fill of Rivaini rum and as we returned to our room, we were attacked by simple street bandits. I was too inebriated; my reflexes were slow. Leliana saved us, _Cassandra looked to their hooded spymaster, who was carefully arranging the cards she held, _and took a shiv to the ribs for her trouble. That was a…_Cassandra winced as she remembered nursing her friend through the night and into the morning_…a terrible evening. I do not wish to revisit it. _

Even though Cassandra knew she was surrounded by friends, that she had nothing to fear, she decided to limit her intake of alcohol. Just to be safe…in case the worst should happen. She knew that it would not, but prudence ruled her, and therefore she decided to take her enjoyment from the playing of the game and the high spirits of her companions, instead of strong drink.

Throughout the rounds, Cassandra found her eyes more and more often riveted to Cullen. She laughed at her friend's bawdy jests, especially the feigned duel that had taken place when Sera found a card slipped under Varric's sleeve. Chaos had ensued, a recount of the deck had been done, and once the cards were re-distributed, the true fun began.

In the hours that followed, it was discovered that, while he could wield a sword like no other, Cullen could _not _play Wicked Grace. The man who breathed tactics and built battle plans of strategic brilliance could not navigate his way through the simplicity of the card game. Round after round saw more and more clothing stripped away, until he pulled his chair closer to the table and huddled into himself.

The mead heated Cassandra's blood, as did the sight of all that…all that _man_ that existed beneath the heavy clothes Cullen insisted on wearing. Cassandra had often wondered _why_ he persisted in the long sleeved shirts in the heat of summer, but, looking at him now, she saw the odd scars roping his arms. They glistened in the candlelight of the room, and she realized that he must have incurred those injuries when the Circle tower in Ferelden had gone mad.

_He has been held captive by abominations, and watched those he respected turn into monsters that __**equal**__ the abominations he has seen. It is no wonder that he desires to separate himself from the lyrium. He has seen too many of his brothers and sisters fall beneath what the lyrium can do to them. He wishes to lead, to inspire, and also to regain his own life. That is an honorable goal, and I find that I am privileged to share in helping him. _

Dorian called the round, and Cassandra laid her cards down. She had not won, but neither had she lost, and she joined in the laughter that rocked the room when Cullen presented his cards to the table.

"And another loss for Curly!" Varric rejoiced, spilling ale across his chest.

Cullen's face flushed a furious shade of red and Cassandra found her eyes enraptured as the man stood in nothing but a loincloth. The mood was high, the room warm, and Cassandra found her eyes unashamedly riveted to the man's body as his hands moved to the ties of his smallclothes.

"This is ridiculous." Cullen muttered, a single piece of cloth all that protected his modesty.

Cassandra stared at the broad lines of the man's chest, the six perfect bundles of muscle that twitched in the candlelight. Her throat felt dry, but she did not reach for her glass. Instead, her eyes were inexorably affixed (she blamed the mead) to Cullen as his fingers fumbled with the ties.

The cloth fell away and Cassandra's breath rushed from her lungs. The laughter of her compatriots fell away. All she saw was the blush across his high cheekbones, spreading down his throat where the muscles were taut and tense with the strain of the moment. Her eyes traveled down to his heaving chest, the lyrium gleaming scars that were _exquisite_ and stamped on his body. Her eyes traveled down to his powerful thighs, the legs of a soldier well-traveled and taught.

The sparse blonde hair between his legs did little to hide his manhood, and Cassandra knew that she should look away, that others were watching, but her body would not listen, the burning in her belly would not cease, and in spite of the laughter and frivolity of the evening, Cassandra's mind had turned to deeper thoughts.

She thought of the times she had stayed up with Cullen through the night, talking to him as he longed for what he had forsaken, the comfort of the familiar. She had distracted him with stories of her life; he knew her in a way that none other knew, besides Leliana, but that woman was the mistress of secrets, and would never be more to Cassandra than a dear friend.

However, when Cassandra gazed into those deep brown eyes she saw something that she recognized in her own reflection. There lived a loneliness inside of him, a fear and a longing that she knew her own soul mirrored. Cassandra had never been a weak woman, never had she been melted by the mere sight of a man's body, but this was not a simple man.

It was _Cullen Rutherford…_a man that she trusted. A man that trusted her. And now she saw him in all of his glory, naked before her. A sharp pain distracted her and she discovered that her teeth had bitten into her lower lip, and that, between her thoughts and the vision still standing before her, her thighs were damp with want.

Cullen sat back down and the game went on until everyone became too tired, too exhausted with gaiety and frivolity to continue. Little by little, the crowd dispersed. Krem supported a drunken Enara from the room, whispering all sorts of devilish things in her ears. Bull grabbed Dorian by the shoulders and shoved him from the room, those massive hands reaching for the mage's shapely buttocks in an unseemly manner.

They filtered out of the room, single or in pairs, until naught but Cullen and Cassandra were left. The templar looked to Cassandra, his eyes beseeching.

"Do not increase my shame, I beg of you." he asked. "Let me escape from here unnoticed and unwatched."

Cassandra frowned. "Do you not have your garments?" she asked.

Cullen shook his head, that adorable flush crossing his cheeks once more. "They were apparently absconded with while we continued to play. Please, Cassandra." he pleaded. "Let me escape."

Cassandra smiled, wondering if she could turn this situation to her favor, to sate the needs of their bodies, but the tormented expression in his eyes and the thin line in which he held his mouth changed her mind. She rose to her feet and nodded.

"It is not like you have not seen me in such a light, Cullen." she reminded him, smiling inside at her secret triumph as Cullen's flush deepened.

"That was entirely different, Cassandra." Cullen reminded her. "I bared your body only to heal your wounds."

"Yes." Cassandra nodded as she made her way to the door, glancing back at him. "I know this for truth. But there are other reasons besides children's games and the need for healing to bare one's body to another. Perhaps…perhaps…" she broke off, finishing her words in her thoughts alone.

_Perhaps we might find those reasons. _

"Perhaps indeed, Lady Pentaghast." Cullen remarked as Cassandra left the room, setting fire to her blood.

She knew that he had sensed the intent of her words, and that alone was enough to make her collapse onto her bed, overheated even in the chill of the room. Feeling very vulnerable, very human, she bit her lip, recalling the image permanently stamped in her memory as her hand traveled down her body, seeking places where she _longed_ for another's touch.


	4. The Consummation

**After Adamant**

"You don't understand!" Cullen shouted, picking up a vase and flinging it at the wall.

It shattered, the ceramic fragments showering down, and the person who had been its intended target rose from their crouched position. Cassandra glowered down at him, normally a glance that could wither a smaller hearted man, but Cullen would not be cowered. He would not be dictated to. And he would _not_ hear reason.

"I _do_ understand, Cullen." Cassandra argued, her voice with its mythic tones heated and fierce. "I was _there_. I _saw_ everything!"

"If Enara hadn't emerged from the Fade we'd all be _dead_!" Cullen shouted. "Our men were almost vanquished! That is _my_ fault, Cassandra!" he pounded his breast, hammering his guilt into his chest. "_I_ have failed in their training! _I _have failed _myself_!"

"Cullen, that is not…"

"_I wasn't strong enough!_" Cullen roared, and if there had been another vase to fling, it, too, would have met an unfortunate demise against the stone walls of Skyhold. "_It's __**not**__ working! I __**need**__ the lyrium again! I __**need **__to be able to lead from the front! To show them that we are __**strong**__!"_

"And you would throw away all that you have done these past months?" Cassandra spoke, her tone even and cool, condescending, causing the fire that burned in him to blaze all the hotter. "You would throw away the strength you have gathered for the demon you remember and loved?"

Cullen wiped the sweat from his brow. He could see his philter sitting on the shelf, the shelf guarded by Cassandra Pentaghast. He had kept his temptation close, close enough to touch and taste, to save him should he fall. Should he fail himself. But he had not failed just himself at Adamant. He had watched his men, soldiers that he had trained himself, be cut down. He had trained those who were now dead. He had failed them. He had failed himself. He was not the man he was.

_The man that I was would never have let them fall. The man that I was would have schooled them religiously. But no. I have grown comfortable in our stronghold. They were not prepared for the foes that we faced and we almost retreated…we were nearly routed by the dragon. We barely held our ground. This is __**my**__ fault, no matter what Cassandra says. _

"Don't we have to accept our demons, Cassandra!?" Cullen yelled, taking her to task, flinging up her words from a past conversation. "That spirit of _faith_ that touched you during your vigil? Could that not be a demon that hounds you and drives you to believe when all around have _lost their fucking __**faith!?**_**"**

"My faith is not in question!" Cassandra raised her voice at last. "Your weakness is! You lack faith in yourself and will not _believe_ what I and countless others have attempted to tell you." Cassandra stepped away from the shelf. "There." she stated, her lip curling in a sneer, a disgusted noise following from the depths of her chest. "There lies your relief. You can either break your vow and break your own spirit, or you can fall to your knees and _pray_ for a new addiction."

"And what god would answer?" Cullen hissed. "The Maker who let Meredith go insane! The Maker who let a _good_ woman and mage like Enara Trevelyan be _tormented_ by that bloody mark on her hand! The Maker who would keep a woman as strong and passionate as you from finding a lover to aid you in the dark times!?"

"You cannot break my faith, Cullen." Cassandra admitted. "But you might break my heart with words such as those. Go. Take your philter in hand, or…" Cassandra walked to the wall, where two longswords had been placed as decoration. She pulled them down and gripped one in her hand, the other she took by the blade and extended the hilt to him. "…or take up a blade and spar with me until your mind is clear."

Cullen staggered to the shelf, leaning against it. His hair was plastered with sweat, his shirt soaked through and clinging to his skin from the rain that had pelted them on their way back from Adamant. He felt as he had when he first abandoned the lyrium. Weak and wrung out, hungering for the remembered bliss, relief, and power that the substance offered him. He reached for the shelf and took the box in his hands, staring at its contents, at the silver/blue/white swirling liquid that would be his demise and his blessing and all he ever wanted.

_…you can fall to your knees and __**pray **__for a new addiction…_Cassandra's words rang in his ears, burning his heart and his flesh. He looked up from the philter and its promise, to the woman who extended a blade to him. She was fire and devotion, strength incarnate, and yet he had seen her body laid bare. He had seen that cinnamon skin peeled apart by an opponent's blade.

He knew her vulnerability, but he also knew her strength. Strength that she offered him now. Strength to turn away from what had dominated his nights and his days. She offered a strength that could quench his parched throat.

A wild growl ripped out of Cullen's throat as he tossed the philter aside, letting the vial shatter and splash on the ground. He wrenched the sword out of Cassandra's grasp and had barely made himself ready when she struck. Cullen blocked the overhead strike, relishing the spark of their blades, the confidence of his bare feet on the stone floor, the weightlessness he felt without the armor weighing him down.

He flung his blade at Cassandra's side, admiring the grace of her body as she danced away. He followed with a lunge and she batted his blade away with a simple flick of her wrist. He continued pressing a battery of attacks until they were both following an old sword dance training pattern. He knew it as a templar. She knew it as a Seeker.

The rhythm was familiar. The clash of steel on steel rang throughout the room. Cullen could breathe in time with the symphony of their strikes. His arm burned, his chest heaved and he felt the weight lifting from it. He did not watch Cassandra's sword, but her eyes. They were burning with a fire that had nothing to do with the heat of their argument, and everything to do with the way in which they stood, their swords standing for more than simple weapons…

The swords were their emotions, their thoughts, their words colliding over and over again through the months they had known each other. Their focus on each other's eyes was the trust they placed in each other. Even holding live steel, they knew that they would not harm each other, and trusted the other not to harm them. This was not a sparring match, it was a dance, and it would end as all other dances did…with them parting ways, casting a glance over their shoulder and feeling that _something _had been left undone.

It felt so very akin to old rage burning in his chest, but Cullen knew that he had lost all of his rage. Rage could not be this white hot fire scorching him from the inside out. Rage could not have powered the artful move that flung Cassandra's blade to the opposite end of the room. Rage had no focus, no dexterity, no skill. Rage could not have powered his bare feet forward. Rage would not have surrendered his weapon, letting the steel clatter to stone in the sound of a retreat.

Cassandra pulled her hand back for a strike, expecting their sparring match to segue into hand-to-hand. Cullen caught her smaller fist in his own and pulled her to him. Her rain-soaked clothes pressed against his and he could feel the heat of her body. It burned with the same fire as his own. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, her breasts rising and falling against his chest, tormenting him.

At last, he pressed the final attack and closed his mouth over Cassandra's, groaning as he tasted her lips. They scorched like an unholy fire, tasting like bright burning light itself. In her kiss he tasted lyrium and knew that he had found his new addiction. With a growl he pulled her tighter, folding her arms in his own, greater strength, feeling her muscles ripple beneath her shirt as her biceps bulged against his grasp.

He thought of other muscles gripping him in more intimate ways and a surge of blood pounded between his legs. Cassandra was kissing him back, accepting his touch, her tongue jousting against his between their opened mouths, a duel he would be all too happy to fight. His hands moved from her arms and those strong arms wrapped around his neck, holding his mouth prisoner against her own.

His hands moved down to the firm musculature of her ass. He kneaded the supple flesh in both hands, pulling her to him, groaning as her pelvis rubbed against the throb of his erection. Keeping one hand firmly on her ass, pressing her against him, he reached between her legs with the other, squeezing her sex, feeling the heat emanating from her center, driving another surge of heated blood through him.

Cassandra's mouth left his and she threw her head back, a low, guttural groan fluttering off her lips and striking him deep in his loins. Driven now beyond rational thought, Cullen pushed her towards his desk, backing her against it, imprisoning her hips with his own, using his hands to swipe at his desk, sending the rolls of parchment fluttering to the floor in a glorious chaos that would dismay him, come morning. But now, he did not care.

He grasped Cassandra's neck and pulled her neck to his lips, savaging her throat with his lips, feeling the vibrations of her sighs and her cries and her whispers for more. His hand trailed down the curves of her body, squeezing, prodding, driving her wild with a rough caress. He cupped her again, pulsing his hand, pressing the seam of her leathers against her sex, causing her hips to buck in his hand, for her lips to cry out.

His hand kept up its motion, his lips and teeth bit her at the juncture of shoulder and neck, sending shockwaves down through her back.

"Cullen," his name was a breathy whimper, a plea, a wondrous sound in her voice that he would spend eternity dragging from her lips if he could. He pulled back, brown eyes meeting amber and cinnamon, flame meeting flame and kindling higher. "Take me." she ordered him. "Now."

Wasting no time, he reached for the laces of her leathers, undoing them with fumbling motions until they were loose. He pulled them down off of her hips and legs, licking at the scars that striped her flesh as he removed her clothing. He rose to his feet once more, needing her mouth, needing that lyrium kiss infusing him with power and emotion and drive.

Their lips met in an untender battle as he forced Cassandra's smallclothes off of her hips and down her legs. She kicked them off and, bracing herself with her arms, pulled herself onto his desk. Cullen reached for the laces of his breeches, pulling them down just enough, letting them puddle at his feet. He tore off his smallclothes and took himself in hand, pressing one hand, hard and heavy, on Cassandra's shoulder, holding her in place as he guided himself to her entrance.

He groaned as the heat of her reached out and called to him, and, not wishing to waste anymore time, he thrust himself into her. Cassandra's head fell back and that cry shuddered out of her lips again, driving Cullen wild. He had thought of this so many times, and dreamed of it more. Every sparring session, every talk late into the night…every time they had come closer to each other, his body had surged with heat and need. He had wanted to make love to her, slow and gentle, but now he could not.

He was inside of her, she held him fast, and he gave into his primal instinct. To _take her_ as she had asked him to do. He reached up with both hands, taking the cloth of her shirt and ripping it downwards. Anger filled him as he saw the breastband obfuscating his conquest and in his displeasure he pulled himself out of her and thrust in, vicious, aching, the height of pleasure tormenting him and driving him forward.

Cassandra cried out at the assault, her hands clawed into his back as her hips met his thrusts as much as she was able, drawing him deeper, pulling him into her, craving this as much as he was. He lowered his head, grasping the linen of her breastband between his teeth and _tearing _it apart. The material broke beneath his assault and Cullen used his hands to tear it off the rest of the way, admiring Cassandra's shapely, firm breasts, striped with small, faded scars from old injuries.

Passion and aggression washed over him again as her mouth panted in small sighs, as she pulsed around him, pulling him further into her. His mouth latched onto a nipple and Cassandra all but _screamed_ as thunder cracked and lightning flashed outside. Cullen wrapped his arms around her waist and plunged himself into her in a wild, harried rhythm. He did not care that she would bruise, that he would bruise. He did not care that her breasts would be sore for days afterward with the memory of the assault of his teeth and tongue.

He continued his assault, thrusting into her, the rhythmic strokes losing their rhythm as he drew nearer and nearer release. His mouth left her nipple with a 'pop' and he pushed her further onto the desk until she was laying down. He grabbed her legs at the bend of her knees and pulled her towards him, crying out as he forced himself even deeper into her, his entire body shuddering as he continued to plunge himself into her body, his own cries drowning hers, his own prayers and pleas as he drew nearer…nearer…nearer…

Abruptly he stopped, that rippling spasm doubling him over as he spilled himself into her. Cullen clung tightly to her legs as he fell forward onto her waist, emptying all of his tension into her body. His head lay beneath her breasts and he pressed frantic kisses to her twitching muscles. The blinding pleasure washed out of him, wave after gentle wave, and he at last found the strength to stand and pull himself from her, rejoicing in the pleading whimper that left her lips as he withdrew.

Cassandra pulled herself further onto the desk, her legs hanging over it, her hips still slightly pulsing upward, seeking something. Cullen's brow furrowed and he cupped her cheek with his hand, drawing her eyes to his once more, half-answering his question when he saw their need and desperation.

"You did not fall with me?" he asked, and she shook her head, biting her lip.

Without even thinking about it, needing her to be as fulfilled as he in this moment, Cullen reached down, replacing himself with two fingers. He pushed inside of Cassandra, almost grateful that she had not come with him so that he could see the pleasure spreading across her face as he curled his fingers inside her and began thrusting in soft, gentle pulses.

Cassandra thrust her head back, her lower lip still caught between her teeth, her eyes closed as strangled sounds broke from her closed lips. Cullen could have watched her forever, but he could feel her need in the pulsating of her inner walls against his fingers. He could feel her need to fall over that sacred, blissful edge, and she had…she had given him _so_ much.

She had given him time, she had given him answers and faith when he had none. She had shared dark nights with him, wiped the sweat from his brow as he shivered from lyrium withdrawal. She had saved him in so many ways, and here she was, prisoner of her own needs after sharing her body with him…he would give back. He would respect and honor a woman of such strength, passion, and conviction.

His head followed the direction of his hand and he buried himself in the dark hair that covered her sex. His hand kept its insistent rhythm, calling her, begging her to follow where he had gone. His tongue reached out, tracing her folds up to the twitching bundle of nerves that would send her over the edge. Her taste was salt and fire and passion, more like lyrium than her lips. Cullen _knew_ now that he had found his new addiction and it was with that knowledge, with that bliss and pleasure, that he closed his lips over that delightful bundle of nerves.

It twitched between his lips and he laved it with his tongue, his heart quickening as he heard Cassandra's wail. Her hips lifted off of the desk and a long list of epithets flew from her lips as Cullen sucked her in deep while mercilessly tormenting her with the motion of his fingers until he pulled her over the edge. Cassandra's cry of release and relief echoed in the room. Cullen lifted his head to meet her hungry kisses, keeping his fingers inside of her so that he could feel her spasms of joy and relief, the flood of heat and desire spilling into his palm, the sheer bliss of being connected with this indomitable spirit who had become his lifeline, his strength, his truth, and his faith.

"I could love you, Cassandra." he murmured against her hair as she tucked her head against his chest. "If you let me, I will love you."

He felt her sweat matted hair brush against his skin in a nod of affirmation. "Yes." she answered with one word.

For a man who had been tormented by his past, driven mad with his own insecurities, and flogged by his own addictions, he knew he had been healed when one, simple word was all he needed to look forward to the sunrise.


End file.
